


quirky little ska band down in Santa Cruz

by kitbuckle



Series: In which Stiles finds other cool bands [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fanfiction of Fanfiction, M/M, Multi, PCtS B-Side, band au, read Play Crack the Sky for context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:24:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitbuckle/pseuds/kitbuckle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles first hears of Shack Pack on an unseasonably warm night in February when he’s vid-bingeing Sublime covers, looking for ideas while they’re finishing Annuals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	quirky little ska band down in Santa Cruz

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Play Crack the Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/989786) by [WeAreTheCyclones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheCyclones/pseuds/WeAreTheCyclones). 



> Back in 2014, I read WeAreTheCyclones' fic "Play Crack the Sky." When it was over and we were all nearly recovered, the two of us talked about how PCtS!verse Stiles has a thing for discovering other acts, new talent, etc, so I picked up some stuff she mentioned and ran with it. This (and the other works in this series) were originally posted a year ago on my tumblr.
> 
> This should make sense without reading "Play Crack the Sky" first, but your experience would be enriched if you can make it through those 122,787 words first.

Stiles first hears of Shack Pack on an unseasonably warm night in February when he’s vid-bingeing Sublime covers, looking for ideas while they’re finishing Annuals. “Summertime cover by Shack Pack” has been popping up in the Suggested Videos sidebar for the last few clicks, and the thumbnail is a cool-looking foursome wearing aviators, so he clicks. And it’s a ska band. Slightly punk, more Latin, with the girl on vocals and tenor sax. Stiles sits up from his slouch.

Derek, playing out the new bass part for the bridge in Fair/Unfair, glances up. “Find something?”

“Yeah, check it out.” Stiles walks over and sits in Derek’s lap without taking his eyes off the screen—Derek moves his bass in time and without complaint. They watch the end of the video together, and then Derek points and says, “Click on their channel.”

Scott and Lydia come in then, toting the pizzas and beer they took a break in writing to order. “I thought you two were working on Hideaway,” says Lydia, swiping a piece of thin crust veggie from the top box as she puts it on the counter.

“Searching for inspiration, Lyds,” Stiles says. The ska band calls themselves Shack Pack and the cover video for their channel is their rendition of “Hook” by Blues Traveler. It’s a little more polished than their Sublime cover, more music video and less recorded jam session. They’re all still wearing aviators—it seems to be a signature or something—and the short bassist has joined the girl on vocals. Then they start skateboarding.

“Hey Scott, they’re skateboarding.”

“Cool,” says Scott. He comes over to see the video, a six-pack still dangling from one hand. “Who’re these guys?”

“Shack Pack, apparently,” Derek says. The tall bassist rolls by on a skateboard, playing the trumpet, with his bandmates chasing after him. It’s walking the tightrope between cheesy and ironic and Stiles loves it.

“They sound good,” Lydia says from the kitchen.

Stiles says, “Yeah, but it looks like they only do covers.”

Lydia walks over and lightly drops the pizza boxes, now topped with paper plates and napkins, on the coffee table. She puts her hands on her hips and arches a brow. “You know Allison will call in fifteen minutes to ask if we’re using our break productively.”

Stiles shuts his laptop—behind him, Derek’s chest vibrates with a chuckle.

“That’s what I thought,” Lydia says.

 

Five months later, just a week after their Annuals concert in Beacon Hills, Derek walks into their kitchen with the mail. It’s Stiles’ morning to make breakfast, so he’s frying turkey sausage and scrambling eggs to go with the pancakes he made to give Derek an excuse to put maple syrup on his eggs. The mail hits the counter in papery thumps behind him. Derek will sort the mail, then come up behind Stiles and wrap his arms around Stiles’ waist until breakfast is ready. Stiles does the same when it’s Derek’s turn to cook. It’s domestic and quiet and something Stiles fucking _treasures_ more than he ever thought he could.

So when the papery thumps end, and Derek _doesn’t_ come over, Stiles turns around. There’s a twist of anxiety in his gut he’ll probably never be rid of.

Derek’s holding an opened manila envelope in one hand and staring at a CD in his other.

“What’s up?” Stiles asks.

Derek blinks. “Shack Pack has a demo,” he says. “Kira forwarded it to us, wants an opinion.”

“Stick it in,” Stiles says with a grin. Derek rolls his eyes, but pops the CD into the CD player/radio they keep in the kitchen (because Derek’s secretly an old man who likes to listen to NPR while he cooks).

They listen to it that morning, feet tangled under the table, eating maple-sweet eggs. The Latin influences come through even more than in their covers, but it still has a slight punk edge. When the female and male voices sing together, “ _Let me go live in my woods, and I won’t criticize your cracking concrete and glass_ ,” Stiles sees Derek raising his eyebrows in his Impressed Face.

He makes Scott and Lydia listen. Scott bops around, dancing and grinning. Lydia follows the drum parts and says afterward, “They make me want to be on a beach in Mexico.”

Stiles calls Kira right then and says, “Shack Pack. We wanna meet ‘em.”

 

Shack Pack emails Kira a list of gigs in and around Santa Cruz; Kira emails the list to Stiles, with a note saying that she wants at least him and Allison to go. Allison tells him they’re going to the last show, an under-21’s night at a club near the university. Stiles texts his band. Scott’s reply is immediate and enthusiastic. Lydia’s already committed to a weekend with Kira—“I’m trying to let her relax around us, Stiles, Jesus.” Derek says Laura needs his help with a new project.

“She didn’t give me the particulars,” he says, sighing with the combination of exasperation, resignation, and fondness he reserves for his sisters. “Could be anything from lifting and holding heavy shit to modeling for an art class she’s teaching—or taking. She’s getting more into portraits lately.”

So Stiles gets in the car with Scott and Allison one Friday morning and settles in for the three-hour car ride. “I have a list of local tourist sites if we feel like it,” Allison says, “and we have reservations at a hotel in case we don’t want to drive back tonight. Can’t let my boys tire themselves out before the album even drops.”

 

The venue is small, dark, and alcohol-free. The likelihood of being recognized is high—according to Allison—so they stick to the balcony. At nine p.m. sharp, a girl with a clipboard comes onstage, welcomes everyone, thanks everyone, and the show begins. The bands are obviously local groups, mostly students (and when did college students start looking like fucking ninth-graders, Stiles wonders), and are better than Stiles is expecting. The atmosphere is surprisingly great—the crowd is supportive, engaged. Every band member seems to have a small cheering squad somewhere in the audience. It feels like everyone’s friends, and Stiles finds himself smiling for no particular reason. If he and his band had gone to college, this is what he’d have wanted it to be like.

During the equipment change between the fourth and fifth sets, a girl with dark blonde hair comes onstage. The crowd cheers, and she waves briefly, smirking. She directs the placement and treatment of several woodwinds and horns, has a conversation with a short guy Stiles thinks he recognizes from Shack Pack’s channel, and approaches the main mic. She turns her back on it and slowly, deliberately extracts a pair of aviators from the back pocket of her shorts. The crowd goes nuts, and quiets itself almost as quickly.

The girl spins around and grabs the mic. “Once upon a time,” she says, voice clear and husky, “in a city by the sea, there were four. lost. souls. just tryin to find a _groove_ they could get into.” She makes the words sound like lyrics, creating rhythm with hand gestures and different pitches in her voice. Stiles nearly falls out of his chair.

“They didn’t have much, nuh-uh, not much beyond the sand between their _toes_ and the forest of white seashell buildings and the Great. Meadow. at their backs.” The crowd cheers at _Great Meadow_. “And on the other end of the Great Meadow their sat—a witches’ village.” The crowd laughs and howls. “And they didn’t believe they would ever be able to _cross_ the Great Meadow to get to the witches’ village, because they didn’t think they had witchin powers.”

Stiles realizes then that the next band is almost all set up. The short guy and a much taller guy are plugging their guitars into their amps and strumming a little bit. They stop to put their aviators on. A skinny black guy (aviators already in place) lowers himself onto the stool behind the drum kit and starts up a soft cymbal roll.

“This should not be as cool as it is,” Stiles says. He looks at Scott and sees his own delight mirrored in Scott’s wide eyes and open-mouthed grin. Allison is recording it all on her phone.

The girl isn’t done yet, though. “After all, all they had was,” she points to the short guy, “breathtaking anger management issues,” she points to the tall guy, “egos bigger than their medal-winning muscles,” she points behind her to the black guy, “a lovin in their bones that the world said was wrong,” she points at herself with both hands, “and a knack for snatchin a meal outta thin air.”

She jerks the mic away from her mouth. The drummer brings the cymbal roll to a peak and releases, holding his sticks in the air. The shimmering sound lingers. The crowd cheers encouragement.

The mic comes back up. “They found a small comfort…in music.”

Stiles cheers with the crowd, can barely hear them over Scott’s whooping. The air in the club has ratcheted up from _friendly fun_ to **_fucking electric_**.

“They built a shack—that’s right, a _shack_ —where they could meet and keep their music-makin tools.” The two guys on bass ramp up their volume, and the drummer bangs out a beat on his tom-toms. The girl takes the mic in hand with a sense of urgency. “And they did their music-makin for years and years until it helped them _see_ that they _did_ have witchin powers, after all, and together they worked long and hard until, one day, they received the sign that the witches wanted them to come join the village.” The drummer and guitarists cut off abruptly. Into the silence, the girl gets up close and personal with the mic and says, “A banana slug.”

The crowd loses it. Stiles wonders briefly just how many university in-jokes the girl had worked into her intro. The band breaks into sound again, more coordinated and melodic this time, and Stiles knows the show’s really about to start.

The girl shouts, “How you doin, Santa Cruz?” and gets a roar in response. “We are Shack Pack, and we’re here to make your night wild!”

Their set is a lesson in contradictions: energetic but not fast-paced, obviously young but not naïve, sensual but not dirty, intelligent but not wordy. Shack Pack leaves a lot in the space between lyrics, in the gaps of their acoustic sound. On one song, the short guy exchanges vocals with the girl’s sax riffs, as if carrying on a conversation. What’s weirder, Stiles thinks he understands it.

Shack Pack plays five songs and then ends on their cover of “Hook”. When it’s all over, the four set down their instruments, join hands, and bow theatre-style before blowing kisses to the crowd and trotting offstage. Allison’s texting furiously, and when Scott tries to get up, she pushes him back into his seat and says, “We’re gonna wait.”

They don’t have to wait long. Shack Pack is the finale, and the club clears out in less than fifteen minutes, except for pockets of kids who know the performers. Shack Pack comes out of a side door as a unit, looking sweaty and younger than they did onstage. Allison leads the way downstairs. When the girl sees them, she stops in her tracks, and all three guys bump into her like a sitcom gag.

Allison walks forward with her hand outstretched and a winning smile. “Malia Tate?” The girl doesn’t respond. The tall guy grips her head gently and nods it. Stiles bites his lip to keep from laughing. “Allison Argent. And you must be Liam Dunbar,” she shakes the short guy’s hand, “Mason Hewitt,” she shakes the black guy’s hand, “and Brett Talbot,” she shakes the tall guy’s hand. Allison gestures at Stiles and Scott. “And this is Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall.”

All four of them—Malia, Liam, Mason, and Brett—are staring. Gaping, even. Stiles hears Scott start to snicker and elbows him.

“We’re representing the label Vulpine Lupine,” Allison is saying. “I believe you’ve been in contact with our associate, Kira Yukimura?”

Brett nods, hesitates, and then nods Malia’s head for her again. She swats his hand away. “Yeah,” she says. She sounds dazed. “But—I mean. I can’t believe you came.”

“You have a good YouTube channel,” Stiles says. Malia grips Liam’s forearm with a smacking sound. “And a better demo. Great show, by the way.”

“Really great show,” Scott says. “Do you always do that _Once upon a time_ bit at the beginning?”

“Um,” Liam says. “Yeah. Our first gig, we didn’t really have any idea what we were doing, tech-wise, and Malia sort of made it up on the spot to keep the crowd from kicking us off the stage.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I guess it’s become our thing. The crowd likes it.”

“Dude,” Stiles says, “the crowd fucking _ate it up_.”

Malia blushes. Mason makes a noise like he’s about to speak, but he freezes when Stiles, Scott, and Allison turn to him. His mouth closes with a click.

Brett clears his throat. “I don’t mean to be too forward, but—why are you here, exactly?” His voice cracks a little on the last word, but he doesn’t flinch when Malia stamps on his foot.

Stiles rocks on and off the balls of his feet, delighted with everything. “We’re gonna ask you to sign with our label.”

Mason makes a sound like an incredulous whine. Malia’s grip visibly tightens on Liam’s arm. Brett swallows.

“We don’t expect you to make a decision tonight, of course,” Allison says. She pulls a folder out of her bag and hands it to Malia. “There’s a sample contract, so you can read it for yourselves and have an idea of what you’re committing to. It’s essentially the same one Smokes for Harris signed, excepting a few personal provisions. Of course we’re willing to work with you on that. There’s also my business card and Kira’s, and references from some of Vulpine Lupine’s artists.”

Malia’s eyes narrow. “I thought Vulpine Lupine only had two artists.”

Scott grins. “Mine’s in PowerPoint format. Hope you don’t mind.”

Liam laughs helplessly, in spite of himself.

Malia takes a deep breath and tucks the folder under her arm. “I have to ask,” she says. Her expression is unsettlingly serious. “Did Derek put you up to this?”

Stiles feels like all his organs take a time-out for a second. “Derek Hale?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Malia says. They all look concerned now—Liam’s frowning, Mason’s biting one side of his mouth, and Brett’s crossing his arms.

“I wasn’t aware you knew Derek personally,” Allison says, sounding only a little less confused than Stiles feels.

Some of the tension seeps out of Malia at that. “We asked him not to mention it,” she says.

“We don’t want any handouts,” Liam adds.

“Dude,” Scott says. “Trust me, this is not a handout. You guys killed it. I dig the integrity, though.” He holds out a fist, and Liam bumps it with a disbelieving smile.

“Did Derek tell you to send Kira your demo?” Stiles asks, still reeling.

“Not really,” Mason says. “He texted Malia like, _months_ ago. We were having trouble getting out of our practice shack, and he knew we were considering quitting after we all got into UCSC, so he texted us—do you still have it?” he asks Malia.

She already has her phone out, scrolling with her thumb. “Here,” she says, and shows them the screen. Her contact name for him is EyebrowsMcScruffyFace. The message from Derek reads:

_Boyfriend found your channel. He likes your sound. So do S & L. He wishes you had some original songs up, though. Hang in there kiddo._

Malia’s reply:

_I am nineteen goddamn years old I am not a kiddo. jerk. XD_

And Stiles has to laugh. “How do you know each other?”

“Funny story,” Malia says.

“Long story,” says Liam.

“Complicated story,” says Mason.

“Boring story,” says Brett, rubbing his eyes like he’s tired.

Malia rolls her eyes. “He’s my cousin.”

 

Derek wakes up near midnight on the couch, slumped over a book. He recognizes Stiles’ ringtone and picks up without giving it much thought. “Hey,” he says.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME YOU HAD A COUSIN.”

Derek holds the phone away from his ear, smiling through a grimace. “She asked me not to?”

“Derek Samantha Hale, I have known you since high school. _High school_ ,” Stiles repeats. “And never, not once, did I hear one word about a cousin.”

“I met her exactly twice: once when I was eight, and once eighteen months ago. It’s a long story,” Derek says, smiling wider at how he knows that’ll wind Stiles up, the delay of information. “I take it you met Malia? How was the show?”

“Did Laura even need your help today?” Stiles asks. “Or were you just trying to get out of blowing your cover of deception and lies.”

“No, she did ask me to come by,” Derek says. “Mom wants portraits of all us kids. I would’ve gone with you if it had been any of their other gigs.”

Stiles falls silent at that, mollified for a few seconds. Derek hears other voices in the background, and a vaguely familiar barking laugh. “You took Malia and her band to a bar, didn’t you.”

“A diner, jackass. We’re not _that_ irresponsible. And you’re not invited. Hey—”

There are a few muffled noises, a crackle, and then a new voice says, “You’re officially my favorite cousin, Eyebrows.”

“Back atcha, Legs,” Derek says.

“That doesn’t even count, I’m your _only_ —”

“Gimme my boyfriend back, you little—”

And then someone on the other end must accidentally hit a button, because Derek’s phone beeps its “call ended” beep. Derek slips it in his back pocket with a smile and heads back to the bedroom so he can sleep properly.

 

And that’s how they sign Shack Pack.


End file.
